


Under the Ever-Changing Sky

by Hyuuae



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Amnesia, Angst, Daydreaming, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:09:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27975618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyuuae/pseuds/Hyuuae
Summary: Hongjoong can’t remember.Memories dance and weave out of his grasp in colorful kaleidoscopes and fractals. Somewhere, sometime, between blurred illusions and aimless days comes a certain Park Seonghwa.And it starts, as all terribly-cliche stories do, on a rainy March evening.
Relationships: Choi San/Jung Wooyoung, Kim Hongjoong/Park Seonghwa
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Under the Ever-Changing Sky

It’s raining again. Violent tremors roll through the sky, sending deep growls echoing within looming masses of graphite. Millions of sharp droplets slam down onto the concrete sidewalk. It's as if the clouds are barriers to a whole other ocean in the sky— and have suddenly opened up, letting infinite waterfalls cascade to the ground. Screaming in the distance, the wind sharply weaves around dim streetlights and darkened buildings as the world tilts and sways on its hinges.

Hongjoong supposes the holy entities up in the heavens must be watching some good, dramatic, bawling-worthy shit because there is literally no other possible explanation as to why there could be this much rain. His mind takes this time to wander, conjuring a multitude of flickering images. Miniature piranhas leap out of the street to nip at his bare ankles. Strings of rain morph into glistening silver ribbons that entwine around his arms and legs, swirl around his neck and unravel across his shoulders. He can imagine some grinning puppeteer up at the end of those strings, fingers twitching in sync with shivers that wrack his body. He blinks. The strings snap and the piranhas melt back into the street as a particularly harsh slap of rain brings him back to miserably cold reality. 

It's quite hilarious, really, how he can still daydream in a state like this. He's never been able to control it— fantastical images just slip into reality. One minute he's sitting in the bus, gazing at the staircase-skyline; the next, there are pearly whales swimming in the sky. 

The problem with his daydreaming though, is that, well, it happens _everywhere_. He's gotten so used to it, he sometimes can't remember what's real and what isn't. Everything seems like figments of dreams— the occasional memory becomes distorted and swims around his reach, dissipating into smoke as soon as he tries to recall it.

To be honest though, it's a little bit terrifying. 

On the bright side, inspiration is everywhere. Images, words, notes— they all just naturally flow from his fingers. He's able to close his eyes and just _see_ everything come together in a flurry of strokes and notes. On top of his college classes, he's a freelance illustrator and has a small music account on the side that he originally made for fun, but to his surprise, it's been steadily growing since then. He's made a bit money from this— just the bare minimum to keep a roof over his head and buy a decent meal every now and then.

The only exception is that it's inconsistent. He hasn't gotten any new offers or orders in almost a month, and his backup money is steadily being siphoned away.

And of course, the landlord decides to significantly increase the rent at the very beginning of said month; hence the lovely eviction from his apartment. 

He hugs his waterlogged laptop tightly to his chest in a vain attempt to shield it from the storm (not that it will change anything; he’s pretty sure it's already been damaged beyond repair) and tries to squint past the sole meter-radius he’s limited to. Past rippling curtains of rain, he thinks he can make out the faint light of a shop a couple of meters away. 

Screw it. He’s desperate and wobbling from exhaustion— he’s taking any chance he can get. He wildly sprints across the street as if all hell has broken loose (because to be fair, it has), fumbles wildly for the handle, and yanks it open.

Chest heaving, he bursts inside and slams the door behind him, greeted cheerfully by the tinkling of a small brass bell. Behind the sanctuary of blurred glass panes, the rain is muffled to a lighthearted tap-dance. His laptop and backpack are drenched whereas his clothes are sticking to his skin. A small puddle of muddy rainwater begins to pool at his feet, staining the wooden floor. Raindrops cling to his eyelashes, blurring the world in uneven spots. He sees rows and rows of multicolored flowers and a single figure standing among a row on the far right, eyes comedically wide, lips shaped into a perfect _o_.

Hongjoong thinks he would’ve laughed if he wasn’t so fucking miserable.

To be fair, the man is probably a part-timer and doesn't get paid enough for shit like this. The man slowly blinks and closes his mouth. A concerned expression falls across his features.

“Are you alright?”

Hongjoong doesn’t have time to think. Weeks of sleepless nights and restless days have completely torn down his self restraint. Everything comes rushing out in a rapid-fire torrent of words.

“I’m screwed. Like, really, really, really fucking screwed. I have my fucking final project due in a week and all my work was on my god damned computer and it’s probably all gone down the fucking drain because of the fucking rain. I’ve gotten like three shitty hours of sleep during the past few days and I’ve just gotten kicked out of my apartment because of some stupid shitty mistake and I’m couldn’t pay the fucking rent and I only had time to grab my laptop and cram a few things into my backpack and it’s all probably soaked already and life. Is. A. Fucking. Piece. Of. _Shit_.”

He’s panting for air by the last word, the only sound echoing in the uncomfortable silence that follows. He feels his cheeks redden, also he's not sure if it's from embarrassment or the cold. Maybe both. His eyes are burning. A string of tears leaves a burning trail down his frigid cheek. He realizes he's crying. The droplets wobble on his chin for a long second before plopping onto the floor to merge with the growing puddle.

The man slowly blinks again. Hongjoong can't really blame him. He must look like one of those insane homeless strangers that parents warn their children about— dark circles cupping his bloodshot eyes, red hair matted and drenched in muddy rainwater, bulging backpack weighing down his swaying shoulders, ripped clothes plastered to his skin, and trembling fingers furiously gripping his laptop. 

Exhaustion suddenly washes over him— some grand universal force that clouds everything in his sight— and he sways on his feet, slumping against the glass door beneath him. A small functioning section of his brain commends the man for not calling the police by now. He can't remember when it happens, but suddenly, the shelves tilt at a dangerously sharp angle. Flowers spin across his vision— he can recognize golden daffodils and delicate tulips; the rest are a flurry of twirling pastel petals. He opens his mouth, managing to mumble a quiet _sorry,_ before a curtain of black sweeps itself across the world and he slumps to the ground.

__________

Hongjoong smells peppermint and lavender. He opens his eyes.

The first thing he sees is the window. The rain has cleared, letting spots of dappled light drift through the windows and dance around the little shop in hues of gold and green. The glass is coated with little iridescent raindrops that slide towards the ground at a leisurely pace, covering the pane with a network of rivulets. Spider droplets crawl down the surface, weaving intricate webs of glistening rain-silk.

In the sunlight, the flowers almost seem to glow— creamy orchids with pulsing magenta veins, soft peonies bathed in a faint coral halo, and little wildflowers in specks of ivory and aureate. He watches as the light lazily drifts across the floor in hypnotic swirls. It swims between the floorboards, dips, then spirals into pools.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

Hongjoong lifts his head to see the man from earlier. He’s holding two cups in each of his hands. 

“I made tea if you want some? You collapsed and I didn’t really know what to do, so I carried you over here... oh, and your stuff is here.” He gestures frantically to the table and bench. “We don’t open until 8 and it’s around 7:30 right now, so you’ve got some time. No one really comes here anyways, so, well, feel free to stay as long as you’d like.”

Hongjoong’s voice comes out in a raspy whisper as he pushes himself up to a sitting position. “Y-yeah. Tea would be great. Thank you so much...” 

His voice raises in a questioning tone as he takes a cup.

“Oh. Seonghwa. Yours?”

He brings the cup to his mouth and takes a sip. The mint washes away the dryness in his throat and replaces it with a light flowery aroma. It’s good. His voice comes out much clearer. “Hongjoong. I’m sorry about earlier. Please forget about it. Really, I’ll figure out something.” He offers a tired half-smile in an attempt to reassure him. He doesn’t think it works.

Seonghwa presses his lips together in a thin line. “A...alright.”

Hongjoong’s eyes start to wander again and settle on a plant sitting in a small glass vase. Nestled within long, narrow leaves, a dense cluster of little purple flowers line a thick stem. The petals are inlaid with a dark vein, as if the flowers are bleeding from a heart at the very center. Or maybe it’s a crying eye. He blinks. The light warps and blurs.

There are hundreds of tiny eyes that stare at him, with pupils of rich maroon and gold and crimson, all brimming with tears of saturated paint that trail down to the tips of their petals. Lines of color starkly almost seem to scream against the pale, translucent skin. They peer at him, unblinking, filled with a painful nostalgia. His breath hitches. The eyes begin to slowly roll and quiver, as if desperately trying to close nonexistent eyelids. Bloody veins begin to rim their edges; the pupil behind the membrane seems to swell in an attempt to escape its prison. He can’t look away. In some twisted way, it’s hauntingly beautiful— an enrapturing symphony of dyed sorrow.

“Hyacinth.”

The eyes close and recoil back into the depths of the stem. 

“What?”

A fond smile gently settles across his face. “It’s a hyacinth. The different colors have different meanings, but that one specifically represents sorrow. Or regret.” His voice is laced with a hint of nostalgia.

Hongjoong lets out a small laugh. “Fitting. They’re beautiful. How much?”

“Sorry?”

“This _is_ a flower shop, right? You sell these? How much for that one?”

Seonghwa blinks. “Um. 2 dollars.”

“I’ll take it.” Hongjoong leans forward to his bag and reaches around for his wallet. He opens the worn pouch on the side and dumps the contents on the table. There’s a loud noise as several coins tumble onto the surface. Copper and silver bits glint as they spin like flattened tops, rolling to a clattering stop near the edge.

Hongjoong leans forward and begins counting under his breath. “Ok... that’s 1... 5... oh, 70... 135... 198... 199... almost there... Aha. 200.” Pushing the coins aside, he dumps the rest unceremoniously back into his wallet. “2 dollars!”

Seonghwa watches with a bit of pity in his gaze and bites his lip. A corner of his mouth twitches, as if he’s internally battling whether or not to laugh or start offering a string of apologies. He swallows. “Um. Thank you. D-do you want a receipt?”

Hongjoong slings his backpack over his shoulder and stands, trying to quietly set the handful of coins onto the counter. They messily clatter once more. He winces and carefully picks up the vase. “I’m good. Thanks though. Well. I probably should go now. Thanks so much again for like, not calling the police. Or the homeless shelter. Or um. Not kicking me out.” He offers another tired smile.

Seonghwa lightly laughs. “No problem I guess. Please take care. And good luck with everything.”

Hongjoong mocks a salute as he swings open the door. He slips outside, followed by a muffled jingling as the door falls shut. 

Outside, the small city has already woken up, happily blinking with nonstop activity. There are a flurry of cars and pedestrians wandering around the streets, obnoxiously whirring and chattering. 

It’s terribly overwhelming compared to the tranquility of the flower shop. The flood of images and sounds is too much. His mind is already starting to become hyperactive again, the first dregs of adrenaline rushing to his head, the first images beginning to morph into abstract creatures. Hongjoong shuts his eyes tightly and concentrates on the blackness. He takes a breath, focusing on the feeling of air rushing in and out of his lungs. He opens his eyes. He’ll have to find a place to stay first. Then find another job. Then... oh. He quickly unslings his backpack to check his computer.

He cracks open the lid. By some miracle, the screen comes to life, dimly glowing. There’s 6 percent left. He quickly checks all his files— thank the gods— they’re all intact. He’s homeless, but at least he still has his stuff.

Ok. He can do this.

__________

Hongjoong scrapes by the next couple of days, the hours quickly passing in a blur of insanity. He gets a full time job at a coffee shop that pays a decent wage for reasonable hours. (The owner— his name is Yunho— is an incredibly energetic and kind person who is probably the personification of a golden retriever.) He finds out he’s not terrible at making coffee, manages to recharge his phone and computer, and uses the free wifi to put his music account on hiatus and set up his commission information online again.

Thank the high entities for free wifi.

He sleeps on park benches for the first couple of days (he doesn’t recommend it— it’s cold) until he receives a massive commission for a picture book a week later. The base payment is enough for him to rent out a tiny apartment a couple minutes walking distance from the coffee shop. A miniature table and bed fit in the corner; basic kitchen appliances line the other wall; a small bathroom sits near the entrance. There’s clean running water and electricity. It’s perfect. Hongjoong almost cries from relief, thanks the high entities again, and starts working.

He falls into a mundane nonstop rhythm— working at the coffeeshop during the day and on commissions in the evening, stopping every now and then to eat and sleep. Hours slip through his fingers and quickly fall out of sight. He loses count of the days. It’s a relatively peaceful job. Most of the customers are pretty nice people. There’s a cute but loud couple that comes every evening (San and Wooyoung, he learns, after overhearing them audibly chattering one night) who always share a large hot chocolate, whipped cream, two marshmallows (yes, they have marshmallows). There’s a kind old lady who comes on the weekends for a cup of chamomile tea and rambles to Hongjoong about childhood stories about her kids. And then there’s the occasional rude customer that screams about how there’s a speck of cinnamon on the side of their one-cream no-sugar medium-sized 85°C coffee and noisily demands a refund. 

So yeah. Peaceful.

He’ll occasionally make small talk with Yunho on slower days. He finds out Yunho has an older brother, danced in high school, and likes soccer. Apparently, Yunho was invited to a prestigious dance academy near the end of high school, but his family couldn’t afford the tuition so he ended up working at the coffee shop— the previous owner passed the shop to him a few years ago and he’s been here ever since. Hongjoong tells him about his past commissions and his dream of becoming a composer.

Hongjoong still sees... well, everything. He still sees the plants lining the window curl up into little eyes that watch him as he moves around the counter. He still sees glossy ribbons of rain and pearly whales in the sky. He sees tater-tot bushes, spinning pinwheels, and fluttering origami mail.

It’s a comforting rhythm.

__________

It’s a late evening in April. The trees outside are glazed with a light periwinkle sheen; the glow from the lampposts illuminate the light mist floating around the dark air. Inside, Hongjoong watches the steam from the machine rize and lazily curl around the fairy-lights adorning the ceiling; he looks into the cup and sees a train of bubbles drift aimlessly across the surface— a thin, wobbling film of iridescent brown. They hover for a slight second before popping. He slides the cup over to Mingi (he’s the new part-timer), scratches the order off the list, then mechanically moves to the next one. The heater noisily rumbles as the door opens, and a gust of cool air ruffles his hair. 

“Welcome! What can I get yo- wait... oh! Seonghwa!”

Seonghwa stands at the front of the counter, dark hair framing his wide eyes. He looks equally surprised, then gently smiles. 

“Hi Hongjoong. How are you?”

Hongjoong grins, then spreads his arms. “Not dead! What can I get for you?”

Seonghwa chuckles, then peers at the menu above him. “Iced americano... small... and could I get 8 pumps of syrup?”

Hongjoong chokes and starts coughing. Seonghwa steps forward, a slightly panicked expression falling across his face.

“Are you alright?”

“Y-yep I'm fine.” He lets out a last cough before waving his hand dismissively. “Ok let’s see... small iced americano, 8 pumps of syrup, right?”

Seonghwa nods.

“Alright so that’ll be 2 dollars, 15 cents... oh wait.”

Seonghwa starts to reach for his wallet before Hongjoong quickly interrupts. “No, no, let me pay for it— I still owe you for letting me collapse on you don’t you dare argue with me.”

Seonghwa hesitates, then slumps in defeat. “Alright.” His shoulders straighten. “Oh, also, when does your shift end?”

Hongjoong twists his head to check the clock. It’s almost 11. “In like... a minute-ish, how come?”

“Do you have anything after this? To go for a walk together or something? It’s just that it’s been a while since then and I just want to make sure you’re doing alright and—“

Hongjoong cuts him off with a bright laugh while reaching for the syrup. “Yeah, sure!” The machines hiss in the background as he clicks the lid onto the cup and slides it forward with the straw. “I finished the last batch of sketches a couple days ahead of schedule so I’m pretty much free for the rest of the evening. Just gimme a couple seconds to clean up.”

Seonghwa nods, sticking the straw into the drink. Hongjoong grabs the cloth, wipes down the counter, then heads to the back. He slings his backpack over his shoulder. Seonghwa is waiting at the door, lips pressed in a thin line around the straw. Hongjoong switches off the lights and flips the sign from  _ Open  _ to  _ Closed _ . 

They walk out the door.

There’s a muddled ebony pooled across the sky. It’s quiet. The occasional car passes by in a blur of fluorescent yellow, somewhat akin to a lazy butterfly. Hongjoong stares intently at the ground as they walk along the sidewalk, skipping over the cracks in the concrete. 

“It’s from the temperature.”

Hongjoong stops and looks up. A faint blush is dusted across Seonghwa’s face as he hesitantly continues.

“The cracks in the sidewalk. The concrete expands and contracts when the temperature changes. There’s also erosion from the weather. Which causes the sidewalk to fracture.”

Hongjoong hums. “Huh. That’s cool.”

There's a short pause.

“You don’t think it's annoying?”

“No.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Listening.”

Hongjoong smiles. “Anytime.”

Seonghwa doesn’t say anything, but Hongjong thinks the blush on his face deepens a bit more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! I hope this was alright. asdflkjn this was so scary to post so thank you so much for making it up to here. I've got a storyline written out for this— I'll keep posting chapters whenever I can.
> 
> please feel free to leave kudos or let me know what you thought in the comments! have a nice day!


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